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Sunday, July 28, 2013

Excuses are like assholes. Everybody's got one. But when it comes to powerful men lying about sex, their excuses are giant, bloody prolapses that they drag around like bulbous vestigial tails. And when such powerful men want their name cleared they pay men like Vic Musket. A private detective with ethics as questionable as his choice of street whores.

Senator Jim Gallant of the garden state of New Jersey was facing serious allegations of illicit sex with some high-end escort, the kind of scandal that has been overcome by countless politicians and would seem to pose no threat beyond the cost of a skillful PR representative and an embarrassing news interview or two. But there had to be more to it, considering the serious look on the face of the staffer sitting across the table from him.

"Before we begin, detective Musket, I want your assurance that anything we discuss with you will not leave this room. We are willing to pay you quite handsomely for your discretion..." the well-dressed man looked shocked when Vic interrupted him.

"I won't tell about your dirty secrets if you don't tell about the mess I am about to make in that executive bathroom, mister." Vic Musket stood up and began marching toward the slightly ajar door at the back of the conference room.

"But detective, I will have to show you to another restroom, that toilet is out of order." the man said with a slightly panicked look on his face.

"No problem. I can use the sink." was the unwelcome response, Vic not even slowing his stride.

The man darted in front of him before he could touch the doorknob. "Excuse me, sir, but I will have to insist! I cannot allow you to defecate in the Senator's bathroom sink!"

"Do I look like the kind of animal that would shit in a sink?" Vic asked, leaning in to make a point. "It's 10:30 in the morning, and I haven't thrown up all the whiskey from last night. I haven't eaten in two days, so I assure you there won't be any plumbing problems. Now step aside!"

The sweet stench of booze was all the evidence the man needed to apologize and step aside. And after a few minutes of loud retching with the door wide open, Vic returned to the table. "Like I was saying, we can pay you handsomely for any information that might clear the Senator's good name in this matter. $20,000 if the evidence is good enough to make the problem go away."

The figure had Vic's full attention. "Give me the details" he said, "and get the money ready. I don't take checks."

The well-dressed man ran through a powerpoint presentation that explained everything. The Senator was accused of patronizing an escort service, and the glorified prostitute didn't have the good sense to keep with the age-old tradition of amnesia concerning her clientele. She was threatening to come forward with a story of receiving three full hours of cunnilingus from Gallant's famous silver tongue just three days ago, and wanted a sizable portion of the Senator's upcoming campaign fund or else she was talking. The voters wouldn't find this so unpalatable, pun intended, except for one fact. The escort was a hermaphrodite. The thought of a political candidate going down on a whore was one thing, but they wouldn't be able to shake the image of him wearing a flaccid penis on his face like groucho glasses in time to vote for him. Not even in Jersey.

"Do you have a picture of the whore?" The man called for a secretary to bring in a laptop, and upon delivery brought up an old mugshot of the culprit. A grin widened across Vic's face. "Can I meet with the Senator? Is he here?" Vic asked.

The man was perplexed and it showed on his face. "Detective, the Senator is a very busy man, and I am not..." but he was cut off for the second time by a voice from the doorway.

"Well I have only one question for you. Do you shave with a blade or an electric razor?" Vic asked.

The two men in suits shared a confused glance. "A blade, every morning. It's the only way to maintain a clean appearance now, with the high definition cameras, and such." Said the Senator.

Vic stood up. "Then I know you are innocent. Pay me and I will be on my way."

"Not so fast, detective. We need irrefutable proof to keep this woman from speaking up. You aren't getting a dime until our lawyers are satisfied there is no further political threat here." The well dressed man remained unconvinced.

"It's quite simple," Vic began "the good Senator is clean shaven, not a blemish on his face, the picture of trustworthy modern American politics. He shaves with a razor daily, a clean shave that leaves his facial pores open and exposed, yet he bears no sores on his lips. Get that 'woman' tested, sir. 'She' has a bad case of herpes, and any man freshly shaven with a blade would look like we went down on a wasp's nest after pleasuring her."

"But I don't understand," the Senator muttered, "how can you tell she has herpes from the picture on the laptop?"

"Simple." Vic replied, taking a flask out of his inside pocket. "Because I gave them to her six weeks ago." By the time the lawyers had contacted the woman and explained the new developments, she recanted her story and Vic's briefcase full of cash was prepared. Plenty of money afford any number of exotic escorts, even one born with the kind of tackle that gave men like him plenty of options.

Monday, July 22, 2013

Holy shit it finally happened! I am sure you will all remember where you were when you heard about the glorious coming of a baby with a higher birth than anyone in your lineage will ever achieve! I know what I was doing, reading an essay on the state of islam by the late Christopher Hitchens and breathing shallowly in eager anticipation of the news on the next royal heir. And we here at Popular Irony have the exclusive first pic of the baby prince!

As any other americans can probably relate, I had a hard time understanding how a newborn baby could hold the attention of the international media for so long. It seemed trivial, like maybe the world had serious doubts about the working order of the prince’s royal member. But then I realized why this is such a big deal. I mean, it’s not everyday that every living human on earth takes a step backwards in overall rank to someone who is only hours old. Just think of all the starving peasants he will step over on his way to a caviar and fois gras breakfast over the course of his lifetime! It really gives you perspective.

It is easy to see why the british people are so excited to add another person to the long list of royals that will forever gorge themselves on the teats of the collective taxpayer. And in return for the lifetime of support in their excessive lifestyle, the new addition to the royal family will spend the rest of his days contemplating difficult decisions, like whether or not to read the newspaper for information on political policy making, or if he will attend public events in lavish clothes that are covered by enormous unearned medals and ribbons.

The whole spectacle really puts our political system to shame. In the states you must spend your early years educating yourself and participating in public or private affairs to make a name for yourself, then appeal to the community you live in for support in your election to public office, followed by years of diligent service to allow you to climb the ranks to the eventual pinnacle of your chosen field of government. Only then are you allowed to rape the taxpayer. Our whole system fails to take advantage of the easy selection process inherent in a birthright system. Here you have to earn your way unless your surname is Kennedy. Or Clinton. Or Bush. Or your family has generational wealth. Ok, maybe I should shut up now. YAY MONARCHY!!

Friday, July 19, 2013

Sweat Laddie here, ready to spread cheer! Line up folks and grab yer rags, it's almost sweatin' time! Everyone from Tuscucola all the way down to North Wallahasee knows that my sweats is the cure to almost all yer ills.

Once yer rag has reached saturation, all ya need do is place it in yer mouth and suckle. You know how to suckle, don't ya? Put yer gums together and *schluck*. My body drainin's fillin' yer mouth will fill you with the healin' power of Jesus! Now you know it's true. Jesus don't lie.

Thursday, July 18, 2013

As some avid readers/listeners of the podcast may have already devised, Terlet and myself reside in Colorado. There are two things our state has that bring in the hippies, one is pot, and the other is an amazing mountain landscape. Well, I decided to make my way back to the stomping grounds of my youth by traveling up to the Rocky Mountain National Park, and I decided that despite it's natural beauty and fresh alpine air, I fucking hate nature. Allow me to explain.

Upon entering the park I took this photo of the wonderful valley surrounded by massive and ancient mountains. What is wrong with that, you ask? Look closer. Some retarded tourist snuck into frame and I didn't notice. If only my camera was a 30.06 scope...

And after climbing the steep and winding roads of Trail Ridge, you come upon the delicate tundra environment. Here life clings to the rocks and not even trees can withstand the thin air and high winds. It was there that I took this photo, and then promptly got a vicious outbreak of hayfever. Having trouble breathing up there? Now try it with a running nose and constant sneezing.

At the summit of Trail Ridge Road is a hiking trail that promises enchanting vistas and natural beauty that will never be forgotten. What they don't tell you is that the half mile or so trail looks so relaxing, until your fat ass realizes that you are at 12,000 feet above sea level and all the huffing and puffing that would get you up a few hundred stairs in the city only gives you a headache, not any life-giving oxygen. Oh yes, and the views? Mostly just rocks and sky.

But surely it would all be worth it for this amazing shot of a bull elk in its natural habitat, right? Not so much. These dirty beasts will forever be associated with endless summers spent fixing barbed wire fences in my youth. And here in the park they don't even let you kill and eat them. What was the entry fee for, again?

But I must admit, the peaceful solitude of this amazing flower, heavy with a hungry bee, lounging at the banks of a babbling mountain stream had me at the most relaxed state I had been in in literally years. And it was at the exact moment that I snapped this shot that I realized the thin atmosphere paired with my lilly-white, shut-in complexion had left me with severe sunburn on my face, neck, and arms. I am still suffering.

So there you have it. A few reasons why I can justify hiding in the basement of my home and avoiding the natural playground at my doorstep. Toodles!

Sunday, July 14, 2013

In appreciation for this wonderful country that was obtained legitimately and under no false pretenses, I made these comics out of amazing photos of native americans. It took me only about twenty minutes, which I am sure just blew your mind. Enjoy.

Friday, July 12, 2013

It's Nurse Terlet's turn on the zero gravity heart transplant. Doctor Hamtackle is again, not helpful, but this time he is not helpful... IN SPACE!! It's Surgeon Simulator 2013, done right...... Drunk.

Monday, July 8, 2013

“When interrogating someone, they say you can tell if a person is lying to you by how they look into your eyes. A good liar makes deliberate contact, thinking that an unflinching willingness to expose themselves to scrutiny lends them credibility. But someone who is truthful is desperate for you to believe, and it shows. The one trying too hard is the one you should trust, and the ambivalent subject is almost always deceiving you.”

A pale, sweating man in a bathrobe sat at card table in a smoke-filled and light-deprived room. His nervous breathing was the only sound audible over the ringing of ice in a whiskey glass, dancing from the unsteady hand that held it.

“I think it’s all bullshit.” He began again after a deep drink. “There are no tricks of the trade, and the great detective doesn’t have some super-human insight to impress the studio audience with. I get my answers every time, the old fashioned way. With a promise of violence. And I always keep my promises.”

Detective Vic Musket drank the last from the glass, then dumped the two ice cubes on the table between them. “Take the ice. You’re gonna need it.” He said, pulling a small claw hammer out of the left front pocket of his filthy overcoat.

“For fuck’s sake, Vic. I’m not the one who shit on your car. My dumps come out of tubes these days. I couldn’t make a proper log like that if I tried.” The sweating man swung open his bathrobe to expose a small, crooked penis and a colostomy bag strapped to his leg. Looks like this bitch isn’t in heat after all, thought Vic. There were only so many people it could be. Someone young and slim enough to climb atop his vehicle without denting the hood, but someone large enough to leave an NFL sized shit draped across the seam between the roof and the windshield.

“Sorry, Bill. I haven’t done you right in the past, and you seemed like the logical culprit. And, uh... sorry about the problems with your shitter.” The man relaxed and swung his robes shut, albeit a little too slowly. “No worries, Vic. Help yourself to another glass of my whiskey, then get the fuck out.”

“I’m not done with you yet, Bill.” Vic said, pouring himself another glass. “When I walked through your kitchen I noticed two empty cans of creamed corn. The same kind of corn that peppered the length of that log on my car. But you couldn’t have left it there... Or could you have?” Vic stepped closer to the man, yanking his bathrobe open again. “But when you showed me the bag I noticed it had been leaking. I thought the odor was due to your poor housekeeping, maybe a dead pet, but the small brown stain on the inside of your white bathrobe told another story. A colostomy bag is a disposable item, for obvious reasons, and if used properly is a clean receptacle. But yours has been tampered with. And as a man who spent a lifetime as a plumber, you seem to be the type who doesn’t mind getting his hands dirty. Come on Bill, what kind of depraved fool hand-forms his own diseased shit into a makeshift log just to vandalize another man’s car?” He held up the claw hammer once again. “A very sorry man, indeed.”

Vic Musket climbed into his car with a whiskey glass, but no hammer. Whatever he left in Bill’s apartment was evidence now, but he had been careful not to leave any prints. Some might call his actions overkill, but his car was his home. He ate there, drank there, and slept there, and any man who would desecrate his only possession deserved the harshest punishment. He drank the last of the booze and tossed the glass over his shoulder into the backseat, where it landed without a sound. How strange, Vic thought. As far as he could remember, his backseat was always filled with empty bottles. But where he expected a crash, he heard nothing.

Striking a match, Vic leaned into his backseat to see. But where last night there were only bottles, there now laid a bedding of discarded corn husks. Then it came flooding back. The tequila, the drunken driving on the countryside, the cornfield he raided before making his way back to the city with an overwhelming pressure in his guts...

Friday, July 5, 2013

Can you believe it!? PopularIrony.com is 2 years old, today! It seems like only yesterday that Hamtackle was released from that State funded "care" facility. He wandered the streets, opened mouthed and uninspired, until he was able to innocently obtain a lightly blood stained laptop. The free internet access at the local Carl's Jr granted him access to the world of the internet.

That's when he started http://hamtackle.blogspot.com/. It was a simple, free Blogger blog, but it brought him purpose and a facsimile of human joy. Hamtackle slapped his thalidomide flippers against his keyboard, creating poignant observations and wrapping them in utter filth. After 2 weeks of nonstop blogging, Hamtackle was joined by one other, Terlet.

Terlet, an inherent coward and mysophobe, was forced into blogging via threat of a sharp, poop dripping stick. One afternoon, Terlet was walking home from work (the bus is too disgusting), making sure not to step on any cracks in the sidewalk, when he was accosted by a drunken, Irish monster. Hamtackle rushed and cornered Terlet, brandishing his shit stick. Terlet, eyes already streaming with tears, shrieked and curled into the fetal position. Instead of the usual "take the money and rape them" maneuver, Hamtackle demanded Terlet's dedication to his blog. Terlet, piss-stained and weeping, agreed.

Terlet rushed home and purchased the domain PopularIrony.com. The blog has been updated daily ever since. The moist tapping on Terlet's duct tape and sterile plastic covered windows, reminds him of his fear based responsibilities. The constant terror of retaliation from the shit stained drifter, kept both monster and coward motivated.

Now, 2 years, 102,000 views and 802 blog posts later, Popular Irony is still going strong! We now have shitty, Let's Play videos on Youtube at STEAMING PILE GAMES, we started our long promised podcast with fellow deviants, Sir Chapsworth and Ramtang, MASTER BASTARD PODCAST and we never lost our focus on the filth.

I guess I am supposed to give a gift for an anniversary. The googles say that the modern gift for a 2 year anniversary is China. So here is former president of China, Jiang-Zemin in a very Popular Irony political pose.

Thursday, July 4, 2013

Happy Fourth of July America! We here at Popular Irony consider ourselves patriots first, and purveyors of blog-based filth and low-quality let's play videos second. And to prove just how much we love this amazing fucking country, we have included the below quiz to check just how American you truly are. But for the few unfortunate foreigners that might try their hand at answering the questions, here is a quick hint: The answer is always "d".

Monday, July 1, 2013

I think we all know what today is. Today is the celebration of the formal joining of three colonies under the british empire in 1867 resulting in the formulation of the great country of Canada! Ok, maybe we didn't all know what today is. But aside from that fact, we must all admit that without good ol' America Jr up north we would live in a world of dry pancakes, flannel-less winters, and fries bereft of cheese curds and gravy.

So in honor of this wonderful land of frostbacked glory we offer you this... the single most Canadian image ever produced. Yay Canada!!!